*****
Following my newly acquired habit, I woke up very early. I started doing that after the decision of the Judge drastically changed my lifestyle, replacing sleepless nights in front of the computer with an opportunity to enjoy morning freshness. Honestly speaking, I don’t know to which side the pendulum of my choice would shake, if only decision between nights and mornings depended on me now.
I forced myself out of bed as soon as I opened my eyes and before the treacherous thought “Maybe I should spend several more minutes under the blanket” made its way into my head. It took a certain effort of will, but actually much more effort would be necessary to get out of bed several seconds later. Usually, people don’t wake up so early without a strong necessity, and I also would have not if I hadn’t come to like morning’s time.
I think, each part of a day has a specific mood to it, which is imparted to people. It is like the difference between “tight working” days and “an adrenaline rush in one’s blood” at nights, which arouse different emotions in people. And mornings are no exception to this rule, since they have their own flavour. Especially sunny ones which make one feel like one’s entered a holiday after a long academic year or has arrived at a vacation after infinite labor routine. At such moments it looks like there is no “can’t do”, and everything is still ahead. And those few who want to feel it over and over again, wake up very early and find an excuse that suits them best to get out. I chose jogging – a pas time that allowed me to enjoy New York sights and gave a lot of time to spend on thinking. I had started to appreciate both of these much more since I was prohibited from using an iPod.
It all started with me going out for a jog that Monday on July 11 which was the beginning of a chain of event, which eventually brought me to San Diego pre-trial detention center. As always I ran from my home to the Central Park, fed pigeons there and then started out on my way back. But before coming home there was something I needed to do, which had also become a habit by that time. I made a leeway from my regular “Central Park – home” route, heading for one of Manhattan’s skyscrapers. I entered the lobby of the building and headed straight to the receptionist who called himself “a concierge”.
“Good Morning, Monsieur Simon!” I heard the man. Even though it’s been a good 15 years since he arrived in the USA from France, he hadn’t lost his French chic.
“Hello, Pierre!” I replied to the smiling man. I knew him, because that was the building where my girlfriend Alberta lived, and I had paid several visits to her place until her father prohibited our meetings.
He was sitting behind a giant antique table. The wall behind him was covered by lockers serving as mail boxes for apartments. On the desk was a bouquet of red roses, through which peered a name card.
Spotting it at once I instantly asked: “Is it from him again?”
“Yes. He was here again, again instructed me to have this delivered “personally into her hands”, again haughty throw ten dollars on the desk as if I needed his money,” the man answered. “I am sick and tired of him. Was it not for our tricks, yours and mine, I would tell him to get lost next time!”
The bunch of roses on the table was intended for my girlfriend from a boastful and overbearing guy Donovan who was her ex-boyfriend. I had explained to him several times over that since Alberta chose me he was supposed to shove off. But my explanation didn’t produce much effect, and every morning he came to that place and passed on a bunch of roses via the receptionist. I did not have a shade of a doubt that Berry wouldn’t accept it, however, I was not going to let him get away with this impudence. It would have been like showing my inability to protect my girl from an annoying suitor. So every morning I went there and changed the card saying “From Donovan!” to one saying “From Simon!” while the concierge was looking away.
That kind of behavior was in line with my hacker’s spirit. It is common to think that hackers deal with program codes, but that isn’t altogether true. I mean, our real opponent is not programs, but the people who made those programs. To be a good hacker one needs to understand how people’s minds work, and psychology skill is the key. Honestly speaking, studying social behavior is not easier than learning program codes. But both have a lot in common. Donovan thought that once he had developed a perfect plan, it sufficed to regularly apply it for a certain purpose to be achieved – it was like a program. But every program has vulnerabilities and the soft spot of Donovan’s plan was Pierre. And I took advantage of that. I mean Pierre turned out to be my ally and kind red spirit (who would go at any lengths for the sake of real love. He was a Frenchman after all). The court prohibition could prevent me from using computers, but it could not alter my nature. I always tried to take advantage even of a disadvantageous situation.
“I need to find out who should be informed about correspondence this morning!” Pierre winked at me and took a red leather notebook and a pen from the desk. Then he got up, turned his back on me and started looking at lockers and making notes.
I replaced the card with my own which I got out of my pocket a split second earlier.
“See ya tomorrow!” I said.
“Au revoir,” the concierge muttered, turning his head in my direction just for a sec.
*****
“Very interesting,” the lawyer remarked, looking through the copies of case materials.
“What exactly?” I inquired.
The protocol of Donovan Roberts’ questioning,” Mr. Johnson paused, reading something to himself, and then added. “He didn’t know anything about the essence of the case, but he tried to discredit you in every way he could. So now it has become clear to me that the reason for that was the girl. But I’ve interrupted you, continue!”